Asymptotic- A Sherlock Adventure
by BrokenSolitude
Summary: The impossible has always been possible for Sherlock Holmes. But when he's given the missing pieces to a puzzle he doesn't have, will he be able to push the boundary of his deductive abilities, or will chaos consume him?


**Asymptotic- A Sherlock fanfic**

**Genre: Adventure/Mystery**

**Pairings: None.**

**Warnings: Gore, language, unpleasant imagery, medical disruption. **

**Summary: The impossible has always been possible for Sherlock Holmes. But when he's given the missing pieces to a puzzle he doesn't have, will he be able to push the boundary of his deductive abilities, or will chaos consume him?**

* * *

_Author's Note: Why "Asymptotic?" In mathematics, an asymptote is the limit of how far a function can extend before continuing on in a different direction, usually toward infinity. When visually graphing, the graphed function can neither touch nor surpass this line. It is the ultimate obstacle. I chose this title due to the limits I intend to impose on all the characters throughout. Certain lines should never be breached. Unfortunately, some miscalculate…_

_Also, I live in America. I know they say never write about a place you haven't been to, but I'm willing to take a risk and write about London. If I get something wrong- street name, positional error, etc- please inform me, and I'll gladly fix it. Thank you for your help!_

* * *

Night engulfed London.

On this night, it was particularly crushing, a weight on the heaving chest of a city that was suddenly congested and restricted by the simple veil of darkness. On a night such as this, the lines between normalcy and horror blurred and dissolved into each other so easily it was as if it were a natural occurrence, as natural as the growing grass of Spring. Night took hold of everyone and everything in the famed English city and quieted them, but content to hold some close, it found a golden opportunity in slithering inside others, and created Evil's playground on the backstreets and dim alleyways.

A hunched and morbidly spoiled figure stumbled down a dim alley haplessly, the twinkling window lights from above him casting shadows of a Lovecraftian nature along high-rising brick walls. About halfway along the short path, the figure collapsed, and anguished wailing suddenly filled the sky.

This was more than just one bad night.

This was an omen.

* * *

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade rubbed his eyes tiredly, blinking away the urge to sleep. There simply weren't enough men on duty to keep up with the flood of calls coming in that evening. Turning the city's most dastardly loose would not have seen such an uprising of pure, unadulterated havoc as was happening already. He would be working through until dawn, he knew, and he was overburdened before the long day had even turned over into midnight. He had finally returned to the Yard, the first time that evening, and had just managed to sit down at his desk when an officer approached, an aura of nervous energy preceding him.

"What?" Lestrade snapped.

"Sir, we've just received a call that we, uhm, we think you should listen to." He managed to get out. Lestrade blinked.

"Well, let's bloody hear it then! Come on- I haven't got all night!" The inspector exploded impatiently. The officer jumped, and directed Lestrade to the logged call.

The room seemed to fall away from Greg Lestrade as the call played back, garbled and staticky. Everything around him grew still, and his weary focus suddenly renewed. He could make out faint cars in the background of the call, amidst the sounds of wind and talking and-

"Are those sirens?" He asked. The officer nodded.

"Yes, sir. The call was traced to Whipps Cross."

Lestrade looked up in surprise.

"_Outside_ the hospital." It was more statement than question.

"Yes, sir."

The DI was about to say something else, when a voice from the call derailed his train of thought. It sounded thick, as though it were recorded through a vat of syrup. The voice was absolutely sinister.

"You have a choice, Inspector Lestrade. You can let two people die. Or you can let thousands of people die. The choice is yours. For your sake, choose wisely. Time is running out."

The sobbing in the background returned to full volume as the voice tapered off, and was punctuated by a repeating, breathy cry of "help me, help me." Silence followed shortly thereafter.

Lestrade sat still for a moment, stunned. The entirety of the present department staff had fallen deathly quiet. Only the ticking of a plain wall clock made any acknowledged sound. When his faculties returned, anger took the place of fear.

"Right. Donovan, you're with me. Evans and Hughes, you're follow-up. Let's go." He barked. Sally Donovan raised an eyebrow.

"Aren't you going to hand this over to you-know-who?"

The inspector pulled on his coat, making a face and striding up to his subordinate.

"Absolutely not. We can't just go running off to him every time we get a weird call. It's just a scare tactic, and we have to believe that there is a reasonable explanation as to why someone is calling us in a state of disarray from _outside_ the building. We are the police. We keep this city safe. He does not work for us, and he does not need to be called in for every little blasted thing! Why don't we just hand over the whole department to him so he can take care of everything? Hell, let's all go on holiday right now and give him the keys to the place! I don't need him bloody gallivanting round at a possible crime scene we have not even investigated yet- God knows what would happen if it were something simple and tawdry. Do you really want him that cranky near the A and E on a night like this? Do you?"

Donovan shrugged, her expression passively giving Lestrade leave to vent and get on with his investigation. Pursing his lips, he squared his shoulders, slammed the door open, and stalked out into the darkness.

The silent, lightning-speed journey to Whipps Cross University Hospital was both strained and unsettling, and finally arriving was cause to practically jump from the car and out into the open air. The hospital had already been informed they were on their way and not to act until they arrived. A trauma nurse was waiting for them at the doors.

"Evening, Inspector. So, there's been some sort of…call?" He asked, Lestrade nodded.

"Yes. It sounds as though it came from outside the building. Has anyone seen anything or reported hearing anything…well, unusual from outside the building?" His tone was impatient and he knew it.

The nurse shook his head in the affirmative, but before he could respond, a long, low howl of agony came up in the air around them. Quick as a flash, Lestrade had flicked on his torch, and the group was off, led by cries in the night. They rounded the building at a run, waving the lights back in forth, searching for the source of the sound. It grew louder as they thundered down Hospital Road, taking a sharp turn toward the noise at the delivery entrance.

The nurse looked around, a bit confused.

"The lights are out." He offered, as an explanation to the obvious. Indeed, there was nothing lighting the entry point for supplies and food for the restaurant. It presented with a nervous tension, a sort of manic, storybook scene where any manner of evil thing could pop out and send them scattering to the wind. Lestrade gave him a sidelong glance, but said nothing. He was not one to back down in the face of the unknown. They were almost at the source. Slowly, he pulled his sidearm, and approached the small parking area.

The officers swept their torches across the pavement and buildings, examining every angle. It was only when the noise rose up in Donovan's left ear that she got a visual on the mysterious caller, and couldn't help but let out a muffled sound of dismay. Lestrade was at her side in an instant.

The lights displayed the grisly scene for what it was. Not only improbable.

But impossible.

"My God." Lestrade breathed, seemingly frozen to the spot, even in this time of crisis.

In the circle of visibility cast by the torches, the first and most apparent item of note was the blood. Blood everywhere. Sprayed against the walls, seeping into the ground, covering the clothes of the squirming victim. The next item was the victim himself. A man of willowy build and long features. He wore jeans, a t-shirt, and a light jacket, all stained crimson, the t-shirt ripped beyond repair. Sweat soaked his dark hair and caused his skin to shimmer, as though he were made of diamond dust and crystal. A blood-encrusted mobile lay in his open palm, screen dark.

This was not atypical of some of the more gory crimes Lestrade had been privy to during his tenure as an officer of Scotland Yard, yet still he fought to keep from stepping back and shielding his eyes. For it wasn't the level of destruction that caused his blood pressure to rise, but rather, the reason for all of it.

The nurse, collecting himself, jumped in to action.

"He's still breathing." He announced, stabilizing the patient in a less traumatic position. The nurse went to pull up the remains of the t-shirt, but hesitated.

"There's…there's something _in_ that."

The victim moaned, raising his hands around his distended, mangled abdomen, as if shielding it from the world. Donovan looked at an officer next to her, coming around from her trance-like state.

"Phone for backup. And call A and E, let them know to get a trauma kit and a stretcher out here. _Now."_

Gathering her courage, Donovan knelt by the victim's head, taking his hand.

"Hey. It's alright- we're the police. Stay with us. Can you tell me your name?"

A vice-grip suddenly landed on her arm, and the man pulled himself up to eye her with a dead stare. Donovan shuddered, horror setting in.

"I did not ask for this." He wheezed, repeating himself as he weakened, lowering down again as his strength left him.

"Come on, I need you to stay awake. Do you know where you are?"

"He is the devil." Madness took over the face of the man, marring it with a stricken expression. "He is not of this earth." A strong, Slovakian accent became apparent between rattling breaths. Blood gurgled up from his mouth, and at that moment, Sally Donovan knew she was comforting a dead man.

"Who is _he_? What's your name?" She tried, one last time.

"He…is king. Now…a god. Smrť…. je len… začiatok."

Lestrade watched from behind Donovan as the man's eyes rolled backward, and his grip fell away. Silence overcame them all. The nurse picked up a limp wrist and took a pulse, hand shaking.

"He's dea-"

The wet, splattering noise was enough to make an officer behind them retch. Donovan shrieked, and Lestrade ducked, as though a grenade had gone off in front of them. Blood and fluids covered everyone and everything, all at once. The incredible lump in the man's still-warm midsection had blown open to confirm the horrid, creeping suspicion that had first entered Lestrade's mind. The now-petrified nurse, knowing there was nothing left to lose, reached his hands inside the cavity and pulled out a reddish-brown bag. Retching noises continued in the background, even intensifying.

"That is _not_ what I think it is." Donovan murmured, shocked.

The nurse rested the bag on the legs of the victim, and began to gently tear the forgiving material at a small hole. It behaved like stiff flesh, loose enough for expansion, but tight enough to provide protection from the blast.

"Don't." Lestrade tried, lurching forward, but he was too late.

A new noise reached his ears. It was familiar in an unfamiliar way, wholly unexpected and bizarre. Lestrade believed it was fantasy. This was a dream. But there was no mistaking the reality of what he was hearing.

"This isn't happening. That isn't…it's not…it can't be." Someone said. The inspector wasn't sure if he uttered those words, or someone else.

"It is. It's a…it's a…" Donovan tried.

"…girl." The nurse finished for her.

Healthy, cleared lungs cried out for the first time among them, tantamount to sirens and the too-late arrival of the trauma kit, which heralded confusion, disbelief, and fear.

Lestrade and Donovan backed up, choosing the corner opposite the body to recover and process what they had just witnessed. Officers of Scotland Yard converged on the scene in a flash. Lestrade blinked, clearing away any notion that this was not the worst night of his life.

Across England, clocks struck midnight. And at that moment, a large portion of the world's active televisions, computers, and mobile phones lit up with the same message. It played on the large screens of New York's Times Square, conquered every device in Tokyo, and dominated the United Kingdom. Lestrade and Donovan looked down at their phones in unison, and then over to the phone of the dead man, which was also lit up like a triumphant Christmas display.

"Congratulations to the proud father, it's a girl! Many happy returns, Mr…" Sally read in quietly, disbelief finishing her sentence for her. She looked up at Lestrade, expression showing her disdain.

"Are you going to call him now, or should I?"

With a wordless grimace, Inspector Lestrade dialed the number.


End file.
